


a light exists in spring

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (or not), F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Mystical Mumbling, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragments from Galadriel's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a light exists in spring

**I.**

“I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it. It is too great a burden for me.” 

The halfling -- Frodo -- stopped speaking and held out his hand, his fingers itching to close over the ring. It looked small in his hand, bright and innocuous to anyone who did not know better. 

But both of them did. 

Frodo’s eyes were sharp in dark, watching her closely. Galadriel considered. Her hands opened and she needed only to reach out --

The woods were quiet, not a breath of wind stirred the tops of the trees. The mirror threw back moonlight into her eyes, a reminder. 

She exhaled sharply, and laughed, sudden and clear. “Wise I may be,” she said, “yet here I have met my match in courtesy! You are well-revenged for the testing I gave you on our first meeting.”

Frodo looked down at his feet, his cheeks reddening. 

Galadriel mused aloud, “I do not deny that my heart has greatly desired this...” 

 

 **II.**

It was not for many months that she was able to come to Rivendell to see her daughter. 

The steady flame of her fury and her grief guided her from Lorien to Imladris, but extinguished when she saw the small figure waiting for her at gate. Her granddaughter stood in the place where Celebrían usually did, to greet certain visitors. 

The girl did not protest as Galadriel enveloped her into a hug, her weather-stained cloak pooling wetly around them. She felt fragile, the bones of her shoulders painfully apparent against Galadriel’s hand. She wondered at who saw to her, now that her mother could not ... 

“You are looking well, my dear,” Galadriel said, briskly, straightening up and letting Arwen go, but not before brushing aside the hair that fell on her, black and as fine as spider-silk. Arwen shook her head, impatient. “Don’t, grandmother, please.” 

Her hands fell to her side. “If you wish.” 

“It’s just that -- everyone is trying to distract me! They want me to pretend that mother isn’t -- that she isn’t dying.” 

Celebrían, dying? Elrond hadn’t said that when they had spoken last. She should have never let Celebrían marry him...

Arwen gave her a sharp look, as if she could sense the drift Galadriel’s thoughts.

Well, Galadriel thought regretfully, she couldn’t have stopped them... 

“I don’t think she’s dying,” she said at last. 

Then she took Arwen’s hand and together they walked up the stairs and down the hall, stopping in front of Celebrían’s sick room. (That was once her bedroom.) They watched as elves hurried in and out the door, carrying ewers of piping hot water, white linens, trailing sharp, medicinal scents that left a sting in their nostrils. 

None of elves paused to stare, though Galadriel began to realize that she looked quite wild, still in her traveling clothes and probably with leaves in her hair. If Erestor would have come in at that moment and made a some snide comment about her disheveled state (as he usually did), she would probably run him through, giving up her sterling reputation for not-kinslaying without a moment of regret.

They waited for a few more minutes. Somewhere, a clock ticked. 

“All will be well,” Galadriel said, as if the future was open to her, clear and untarnished. 

“No it won’t,” said Arwen, arms crossed and scowling. She looked positively Elrond-ish. 

“No,” Galadriel agreed. 

And Elrond himself emerged from the gloom of sick room to greet her. 

 

 **III.**

She liked him, better than his father, much better than his grandfather. The faults of his family were not his fault, though he had them all, in full. She ran her hands through his sooty black hair and said in a warning voice, “Tyelpo, _really_.”

Celebrimbor frowned. “How is your husband? Trees still keeping him busy, I suppose?” 

“He’s very well, as are the trees,” said Galadriel, pushing him away. “Snobbery was never the way to my heart, as you well know.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, getting up with a sigh. She dusted her lap, though the soot-marks remained. He flashed her a rare smile she stilled her hand, and returned his smile. 

“Be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” 

“Not that I’ve seen,” she said dryly. 

 

**IV.**

Misty shafts of light pierced through the trees, illuminating the path. It was enough to guide their steps, but the way soon dwindled into a twisty trail, darkened and darkening. She nearly lost her footing over an exposed tree-root, but Celeborn caught her arm and steadied her, just in time. She thanked him coolly, and extracted herself from his grip, ignoring the little smile he gave her. 

They kept walking. 

Her feet, shod as they were in delicately made slippers, had begun to hurt. When Artanis had been told that she was to have a private audience with the Queen, she hadn’t expected that there would be so much walking involved. If she’d had any warning at all, she would have worn something more practical than this, at least. Full court-dress in the middle of the woods, the whole thing was absurd.

She shot another baleful look at the back of Celeborn’s head. And as if sensing it, he turned to her and said, “Not much farther now.” 

“Really? Because you said that almost half-an-hour ago,” she said testily, stopping to lean heavily against the trunk of a tree, its bark scratching at her.

“We are closer now than we were then,” he said calmly, arms folded across his chest. He did not look smug, exactly, but still Galadriel thought, _those damned Sindar._ At least he was dressed for the occasion.

For the first time in weeks, she gave no thought to the particular shape of Celeborn’s mouth, or to the way his eyelashes curled over his dark grey eyes, far darker than the Tree-lit eyes of everyone she had ever known. (Up until now, that is.) Still, she gave no thought to the way Celeborn’s hair was the particular star-like silver of her mother’s folk. 

It wasn’t a good line of thought all all. 

No, what Artanis thought of now was that if Celeborn of the Trees was now himself a tree, she, Artanis of the Noldor and a very fed-up person besides, would gladly chop him down. 

“Why,” she asked, as patiently as she could, “did the queen not ask to meet me in Menegroth itself, instead of making us traipse through the woods like this?” 

Celeborn considered her question for a moment and said, “When your brother -- Finrod, I mean -- came here, he and I spoke long of where you all came from, of Tirion, and your grandfather’s palace there. In truth, he spoke long, and I was there to hear it.” 

Artanis fought back a sudden vision of her favorite brother holding forth about Noldorin architecture to his bored, but polite, audience. Finrod, universally beloved though he was (and rightfully so) also had a bit of a tin-ear when it came to things like that. 

“Yes,” she said, rather tensely, “I suppose?” 

“There were rooms, he said, upon rooms filled with people who could go no further, that nonetheless a visitor must cross if he should wish to see the king. It was this separation that spoke of his power, was it not?” 

“You do talk a lot of rubbish,” she said, rather furiously. “We don’t think of like that. If grandfather had met with everyone, he wouldn’t be able to get anything done.” 

Celeborn shrugged, “Well, think of it like this: the queen’s power is not only Menegroth but in the very wood itself, she is steeped in them all, her thought runs every branch and root.” 

“And though everyone else’s thoughts as well?” said Artanis, with a little shiver. 

“Very possibly,” said Celeborn, giving her a brief, unreadable look. “You must remember that the queen is only elf-shaped...” 

“Of course,” Artanis snapped. “I know that.” 

Without another word, Celeborn turned and kept walking. A narrow path seemed to appear whenever he stepped, and Artanis followed behind him. Neither spoke for a long while, until he stopped again and gestured to a break in the trees ahead. Sunlight spilled out from the clearing, and the bright and clear sound of birdsong wove through the air 

“We’ve arrived,” he said, rather unnecessarily. 

Swallowing her sense of trepidation, Artanis brushed past Celeborn and walked into the clearing. The sunlight rested on her shoulders, and set her hair (that had long escaped its careful braid) alight. She was quite alone. 

“ _Oh_ ,” said Celeborn coming up behind her, sounding a little pained. “Perhaps we should have taken a right at the lightening-struck oak, and not the left.”


End file.
